My former mother-in-law, who celebrated her 90th birthday on September 26, taught me this recipe for chicken paprikas back in the early days of my first marriage. I thought of Vera as I cooked this for John and our friends Amy and Gerry. Vera had acquired the recipe from a Hungarian friend, so its provenance is pretty authentic. Chicken paprikas (POP-rik-OSH) has been a standard in my cooking repertoire for more than 30 years. It took me about that long to figure out that I don’t have to make the flour and egg dumplings (Spätzle), over which this is served, at the same time I’m making the paprikas; I used to resemble a whirling dervish at the stove, juggling all of the different pans required to bring this meal to completion. Now I make the Spätzle the morning of the day I’m serving it, keeping it refrigerated until it’s time for the last step in the assembly process. I’ll post the recipe for Spätzle next Wednesday.

We raised a glass to Vera as we sat down to this marvelous dish. She tells me that she still makes chicken paprikas, even at the age of 90.

Special thanks to The Midlife Second Husband, John Rich, for serving as assistant camera man for this photo shoot!

In a large sauté pan, brown chicken parts in canola oil at medium-high heat.

Coat all sides of chicken with salt, pepper, and paprika. (Be generous with the paprika. You want to impart a rich orange color to the sauce.)

After chicken has browned, add the onion and continue to cook for about 15 minutes.

Add cold water to the pan, just enough so it comes up to the sides of the chicken but does not cover the chicken. Bring to a boil, and simmer uncovered until chicken is cooked. (Test that it’s done by removing the largest piece of chicken and cutting it near the bone. If it’s pink, it goes back on the flame.) It won’t hurt the smaller pieces to continue simmering.

When you’ve determined that the chicken is done, add equal parts flour, water, and paprikas juice to make a thickening paste, whisking constantly to blend. Add the flour paste to the pan and stir it in with a wooden spoon to distribute it evenly throughout the sauce. I use the two-handed approach, wooden spoon in one hand and whisk in the other, to smoothly incorporate the flour into the sauce and get rid of any lumps.

After you’ve added the flour and blended it into a nice thick sauce, add enough sour cream until you’ve achieved your desired consistency. You are going for a creamy sauce, rich in color and flavor.

This can continue to cook, covered or uncovered, until the rest of your meal is ready. Serve over homemade Spätzle or store-bought noodles. You don’t need to ask which starch the Midlife Second Wife prefers. Spätzle will be the topic of next Wednesday’s recipe.

* I’ve combined two schools of thought—whether to have the chicken go au naturel or leave the skin on—to make a third school of thought: remove the skin from about half of the chicken to save on calories (Ha! Like there are none in the sour cream and oil!) and leave the skin on for the other half to boost the flavor.

Well, what do you know about that? Herewith, the cause of all my back trouble:

One of my legs, the right one, is shorter than the other by about, oh, one centimeter, according to Dr. Amanda Miller, my physical therapist. That’s almost a half-inch, isn’t it?

No wonder my back had me in the throes of agony.

A reader commented on Part I of “There Was a Crooked Woman …” that she’s in the same predicament, and has heard the situation is not unusual.

That got me thinking …

According to the American Academy of Orthopaedic Surgeons, limb length discrepancies, as they are called, are not at all uncommon in the general population. The AAOS website references a study of 600 military recruits. Thirty-two percent of them had a one-fifth to three-fifths-inch difference between the lengths of their legs, a “normal” variation.

Isn’t this, like having flat feet, the sort of thing that disqualifies one from service? You can find a list of medical eliminators on the Military.com website. Apparently, crookedness can indeed keep you home. There it is, in the section on Lower Extremities:

(2) Shortening of a lower extremity resulting in a noticeable limp or scoliosis.

I remember being checked for scoliosis when I was a child; fortunately, I was spared that malady. But I never thought I had a limp until a clerk at our dry cleaners chastised me for dragging myself into the shop one afternoon.

“You’ll have to step livelier than that!”

“Well, I can’t step any livelier,” I said. “My back is killing me. And you know what? I’ve just come from seeing my physical therapist. She says that one of my legs is shorter than the other.”

“Honey, I could have told you that. You limp.”

Interesting. Someone I see twice a month, at best, had noticed what neither I nor my husband could see. I have a limp.

So much for my dreams of slinking down the runway during Fashion Week.

I have a theory about why one leg is shorter than the other. (Notice how I have yet to say, “One leg is longer than the other?” Typical. I must learn to accentuate the positive.)

Anyway, the theory: My left leg is taller now because I broke it several years ago. Slipped on the ice on my driveway. When I was single. On Valentine’s Day. Should have had a blog back then.

The break was at the knee, a “tibial plateau fracture,” the orthopedic surgeon called it. I was in the hospital for 18 days.

At the time, no one told me that because of all the hardware in my knee, I would be gifted with an extra half-inch in addition to the thrill of TSA pat-downs whenever I trigger the alarm at airport security.

The thing is, the dimensions seem off to me. I have actually lost height over the years. Where I was once a leonine five feet seven and one-half inches, I am now, on a good day, five feet six. Where did these inches go? Oh yes. Never mind. I remember. Next subject.

We’ll explore the wonderful world of osteoporosis and osteopenia in a future post. And maybe, if I’m feeling brave, the weight gain that comes with being an incredible shrinking woman of 55.

For now, I want to tell you that after several sessions with Dr. Miller, I was feeling much better. The first thing I learned from her—and perhaps the most valuable—was the importance of “engaging my core.”

I’m something of a sloucher. It’s true. And what with all the transitions of this whopping big year, I allowed the modest exercise regimen I enjoyed in Ohio to fall by the wayside. One year of no exercise—save walking the dog, trudging up and down the stairs, running the vacuum, and, ah, getting to know my new husband better—will wreak havoc on the body’s vital systems. In my case, the skeletal and muscular ones were in pretty shabby shape.

Being in such pain, I couldn’t just jump on the nearest treadmill. I had to begin gently, and from within. The first set of exercises Dr. Miller assigned me were a dream for a phys-ed slacker such as myself. She taught me how to “set” my TA, or my

The best positions in which to practice this, progressing from the easiest to the hardest, are:

Hooklying (on your back with knees bent)
Sidelying (practice lateral rib expansion with inhale in this position)
Prone (practice belly very gently rising away from the mat, NOT pushing into it)

There are several “muscle cues” one uses in order to engage the pelvic floor:

Imagine slowing the flow of urine
Imagine yourself drawing in a tampon
Pull the anus toward the pubic bone

You definitely should not hold your breath. And you should not see your tummy bulging, your belly button moving dramatically, or your ribs popping up. Dr. Miller’s image, which I like very much because it involves food, is to think of a bowl of cereal on my abdomen. Under no circumstances am I to tip that bowl of cereal. After several days of setting my TA, applying ice to my back, and taking the anti-inflammatory pills Dr. Miller asked my other doctor to prescribe, I was beginning to feel better. I was walking, if not like Heidi Klum, than less like the Bride of Frankenstein.

To mark the occasion, I am going to have lunch with some Richmond writers at Can Can Brasserie, one of my favorite haunts here in the real world. In the virtual world I will be attending a few webinar sessions offered by the International Freelancers Academy. The name sounds rather posh and Oxbridge, doesn’t it?

Up until this week, I did not know such an organization existed. That’s the thing about blogging. One day you’re poking around on the web, looking for kindred spirits online; the next thing you know, you’re a member of an Academy. Well, at least on LinkedIn.

A sense of community is important for writers. There’s a touching moment in the film Shadowlands, when a young student tells C.S. Lewis (played by Anthony Hopkins) that “we read to know we’re not alone.”

I agree. To which I would add: we write to know we’re not alone. And when we’re done writing for the day we often seek other members of our tribe. Sometimes, if we’re lucky (and I am), we’re married to one.

In the essay I wrote for the Richmond Times-Dispatch, the one that got this blog rolling, I mentioned some of the places and organizations that I discovered early in my tenure as a Richmonder. One organization particularly close to my heart is James River Writers.

I had been here less than a month and was still getting lost—even when using the GPS. After a few wrong turns in a city where, it seems, every other turn is illegal because every other street is one-way, I found myself at JRW’s office in Richmond’s historic Manchester district. The office is actually a room in the ArtWorks gallery on Hull Street. This is where I first met Anne Bryan Westrick, JRW’s administrative director. If such a thing as friendship at first sight exists, this was it. Warm and open-hearted, she welcomed me into her office even though she was in the midst of work. She made me feel at home, and an immediate part of the JRW community—as though they had been saving a place for me.

James River Writers was my lifeline during that first year in Richmond. It helped ground me, and gave me back the sense of writerly self I thought I’d left behind in Oberlin, where all of my writer friends and former professors were. In this strange land, I no longer felt like a stranger.

At the JRW writers’ conference last October, held at the massively impressive Library of Virginia, which I have yet to explore, I served as a volunteer, escorting understandably nervous writers to their five-minute pitch sessions with a New York literary agent. A slight divagation: The five-minute pitch, which includes the time it will take for the agent to respond, is akin to speed dating, something I have, thankfully, never tried. Regular readers of this blog know about my familiarity with online dating, and how that turned out for me. Think of my husband John as a successful book deal, and you begin to get the idea of what’s at stake for these writers at the conference. They are bringing their carefully crafted “elevator speech” about their novel or non-fiction book to the attention of someone who is not only genuinely interested in what they have to say, but also has the power to change their lives.

But back to James River Writers. Besides sessions with literary agents, their annual conference also features discussions with authors, screenwriters, playwrights, poets, and editors—even lawyers and accountants, who spoke about the business of being a writer. After completing my duties as an escort, I was allowed to sit in on some of these sessions. I learned a lot, met some wonderful people, and made some valuable contacts.

Throughout the past year, I attended many of JRW’s dynamic monthly “writing shows,” where panels of authors talk about specific topics related to the art, craft, and business of writing. I was away from Oberlin, but I had found a new place in which to learn, and it was exhilarating. I had found my people. New people, but mine. I was not alone.

I’ll be sorry to miss the JRW conference this year; John and I will be in San Diego. He has a conference of his own to attend, and I’ll be meeting with a client about a book project. But there’s a symmetry to that—I’ll be putting to use some of what I’ve learned this past year.

So on this Day of International Freelancers, one year after joining James River Writers and one month after launching this blog, I raise a glass to all of the freelancers, fiction writers, non-fiction writers, journalists, bloggers, poets, playwrights, screenwriters, librettists, and editors out there—in the blogosphere and on the Earth’s sphere. To the ones I know, and the ones I’ll never know. To the ones I might one day meet, and the ones I might one day read.

This is an easy, delicious, and healthy way to prepare grilled chicken. Although the components are few and simple, I believe using the best quality ingredients that I can find and afford really makes a difference in the outcome of everything that I cook. In this case, that means locally-sourced, pasture-raised chicken (we bought ours from Ault’s Family Farm at the South of the James Farmers Market in Richmond); extra-virgin olive oil; organic lemons; and Penzeys dried herbs and spices. I serve this dish with rice pilaf and a green vegetable or salad. Please note that this recipe was adapted from the Thyroid Cancer Survivors’ Association Low-Iodine Cookbook. The original recipe does NOT include salt of any kind.

Place chicken in a sealable plastic bag. Add the marinade to thoroughly coat chicken, then place the sealed bag in a bowl or pan to catch any possible leakage. Marinate, refrigerated, for at least four hours or, preferably, overnight. If necessary, turn the bag over once or twice while marinating.

If using chicken breasts that have not been boned, place them on a medium-hot grill first, before adding the other pieces. After about four minutes on each side, add the other chicken pieces. From that point on, grill for six to ten minutes per side, until browned and cooked through—chicken is no longer pink and the juices run clear. Boneless breasts of chicken might take slightly less time than bone-in.

One recent morning, after stripping off the sheets on the bed in the guestroom, I noticed the mattress was slightly askew. Because I’m an editor as well as a writer, I possess certain innate characteristics. The misalignment of a mattress will bother me as much as the improper deployment of a parallel construction.

I nudged the offending bedding with my knee and immediately felt a shift in my lower right back, accompanied by a spongy sort of “thunk.” And then the pain.

It was mild at first, an annoyance more than anything. I gathered up the sheets and took them down to the laundry. But the discomfort progressed with the day, and by afternoon, when I could barely make it home from walking the dog, I called John to report: woman down.

A week went by without improvement. I finally sought relief by cashing in a Living Social massage coupon for the Richmond Alternative Center for Health. Robin, the massage therapist, came out to greet us. John set off on a self-guided tour of the facility while I limped alongside Robin, following her into a serene, softly-lit massage studio. I studied the comfortable-looking table from various angles, trying to calculate the least painful approach for getting into a prone position. It was obvious Robin was going to have her hands full with this one.

The massage was soothing the way aloe is soothing to a burn—waves of intermittent calm punctuated by bursts of pain. By the end, though, all of my muscles—especially those of my lower back—were relaxed. Until, that is, I tried to get up from the table. Everything seized up again; I stiffened like the Bride of Frankenstein as I struggled to regain my footing. Robin appraised the situation.

“You really should call your doctor if you’re not better by Monday.”

As advice goes, this was excellent. X-rays taken of my lower back looked fine, my doctor said; there were no disc issues or fractures. (I had been worrying about a fracture, actually; a recent bone density test, or DEXA scan, revealed that two of my vertebrae were a hair’s breadth away from osteoporosis. I’ve had osteopenia for years.) She prescribed muscle relaxers and physical therapy. Now here’s where things get interesting.

A friend recommended Progress Physical Therapy in neighboring Glen Allen. I was now heading (well, limping) straight down the path of Kismet. I scheduled a time with Dr. Amanda Miller because, as I recall, hers was the first available appointment. Little did I know that she specializes in pelvic floor problems. Her examination revealed that something about my own pelvic floor was apparently awry; it was as crooked as the mattress that got me into this jam in the first place. Dr. Miller’s meticulous examination revealed something else as well. She told me to bend over and try to touch my toes, then asked:

You’ve subscribed. You’ve liked “The Midlife Second Wife” on Facebook. You’ve shared the blog with your friends and family. Some of you have even commented on these early posts. For this support, I thank you. You are awesome! You are the reason I’m here.

Since August 24, 2011, when TMSW became the new kid on the blogosphere, the site has received 770 views. And no, this doesn’t include my own visits.

😉

Those of you here from the beginning will notice a difference in the layout. I’m now using a beautiful WordPress template called “Chateau.” Rather appropriate, don’t you think? This is, after all, the home of the Midlife Second Wife.

You will also notice a snazzy new logo, courtesy of my immensely talented brother-in-law, Brian Rich. But wait. It gets better. In his off hours, Brian designs and makes jewelry. See this picture of me? Notice the necklace I’m wearing? That’s a Brian Rich creation. The Midlife Second Wife didn’t just gain a husband; she gained a jewelry designer and graphic artist.

Here are a few other new features: on the left you’ll see that some new categories have popped up. “An Open Book” is a place where you can go to learn more about the books mentioned in my posts, or simply see books that have been important to me. Think of this as the library in the Midlife Second Wife’s chateau. “The Blogs of Others” lists sites of other bloggers that I like and want to support. Feel free to check them out sometime. There’s even a place where you can read some of my published articles.

Another new feature allows you to print a post or share it via email or on Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, or WordPress’ own “Press This.” You can also indicate if you like a particular entry. You’ll find these options at the end of each individual post. Just click on the post’s headline to get there.

You know that I’m sharing recipes, and you can look for them every Wednesday. But what you don’t know is that I’ve been busy working to further enhance the site. I plan to interview experts on a variety of subjects, and in the coming weeks there will be a new category for you to enjoy—“Monday Morning Q & A.” I’ll be adding sections on health and wellness, money management, relationships, and arts and culture. If there are other topics that you’d like me to explore here, please drop me a line at marci.keyword@gmail.com.

While we’re on the subject of great expectations, I want you to know that my goal is to post new content for you three times each week. I hope you’ll find what I write fun, inspiring, and worth sharing with others. WordPress’ terrific feature—a community for bloggers called “The Daily Post”—will help me meet this goal. It’s a place where I can ask for help when I need it and encourage other bloggers when I can.

If you’re already reading my blog, I hope you’ll encourage me with comments and likes, and good will along the way.

A word before you begin:It’s always a good idea to read through a recipe a couple of times before you launch into things. That said, please don’t let the length of this recipe scare you away—it’s an easy dish to prepare! I tried to be as detailed as I could because for this dish, it’s all about preparation and process. Have all of your ingredients at hand and ready before you start, and give yourself ample time for working on this, because once you begin frying the eggplant you really need to remain at the stove until you’re finished. But trust me: the reward will be delicious!

Fill a pot with cold, salted water and set aside. (I find the plastic tub from my salad spinner is perfect for this.)

With a vegetable peeler, remove the skin from the eggplant. Using a sharp knife, trim off the ends. Using the same knife or a mandoline slicer, carefully slice the eggplant into large discs, approximately ¼ -inch thick, placing each slice immediately into the waiting tub of salted water.

Let the eggplant slices soak for about ten minutes. Drain the water and rinse the eggplant slices with cold water, then refill the tub with cold salted water and repeat the soaking process.

(Why go to all of this bother? Because you’ll notice the water from the first rinse, and even the second, will be a yucky brown. The salted water is drawing the bitterness out of the eggplant. Trust me.

Drain and rinse well, then pat the slices dry with paper towels.

Whisk the eggs in a bowl large enough to hold several eggplant slices.

Now set up your preparation area:

Using a breading pan, place about two cups of breadcrumbs and one cup Parmesan cheese in one of its sections; mix well with a fork. (If you don’t have a breading pan, use two baking sheets with sides—I use two old pizza pans. Don’t do anything with the other section or the second baking sheet or pizza pan yet; you will use it to hold the breaded slices.

Line a third baking sheet with paper towels. Set aside. (You’ll use this to drain the fried eggplant.)

Place the sliced eggplant, three to four slices at a time, in the egg wash and making sure to coat each side thoroughly.

Then, one at a time, place an egg-washed slice of eggplant in the crumb-and-cheese mixture, pressing firmly enough to ensure a good, even coat of crumbs on each side. Set the breaded eggplant slice on the extra pan you have set aside. Continue this process until all of the slices have been breaded.

Over medium heat, warm a large sauté pan for about 30 seconds, then add enough good quality olive oil to coat the bottom of the pan. Increase the heat to medium-high. Once the oil is hot, place several eggplant slices in the pan, taking care not to crowd them. Brown for about five minutes or until the bottoms are golden brown, then turn them over and brown the other side. When the first batch is complete, remove from the pan and drain on the large, paper-towel-lined pan you had set aside. Then place a layer of paper towels on top of the fried eggplant slices, ready to receive the next fried batch. (You’ll end up with paper towels between each layer of eggplant.)

Complete this process until all of the eggplant has been fried. Note that after about two fryings, you’ll need to carefully drain the hot oil from the pan and replenish it with fresh oil, repeating this process as needed. (An empty coffee can works great for this.) You don’t want the oil to get black and smoky; this will burn the eggplant and ruin the taste. What you are looking for is nicely golden-brown slices.

Serve warm, or prepare ahead and refrigerate. These are delicious cold; I’ve never tried to reheat them. You can eat them plain. (I dare you to have enough left over to serve guests!) Although I’ve never felt the urge to reheat them, John suggests doing so and serving them with a warm marinara dipping sauce.)

Incidentally, this is also a great first-step in making Eggplant Parmesan—something that I’ve never attempted, for some inexplicable reason. As someone who is half-Sicilian and thinks her Italian cooking skills are pretty sharp, I’m embarrassed to admit this to you. Now I’ll have to hunt for a good recipe. If you have a great recipe for Eggplant Parmesan that you’d like to share, please post it in the comment section following this recipe!

Combine all ingredients and blend well. Place fish or chicken in a shallow dish or plastic Ziploc bag and marinate overnight. For fish, grill five minutes per side. Allow a longer grilling time for chicken; Raichlen recommends five to eight minutes per side.

Sept. 11, 2012—A note to the reader: I published this post last year in honor of the 10th anniversary of 9/11. I would like to share it with you again, today, as we acknowledge another sadly inevitable milestone, and leave you with these words from the poet Edna St. Vincent Millay:

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.

So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned

With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

—From “Dirge Without Music”

Dedicated to those who died, and to those whose lives were changed forever.

Like many of you, I sat transfixed in front of the television today, watching the poignant ceremonies and tributes in New York City, in Washington, D.C., and in Shanksville, Penn., honoring the victims and heroes of September 11. Like many of you, I watched with a loved one, grateful that I was not alone with these heartrending images. Like many of you, I remain painfully aware of the thousands of loved ones who saw their lives forever altered during those brief, horrific hours ten years ago.

My heart goes out to these families. I cannot even begin to imagine the magnitude of their loss, the depths of their grief.

My husband and I also watched MSNBC’s playback of NBC’s live coverage of those terrifying moments when the world changed. We held hands tightly. My gaze remained fixed on the gaping hole in the North Tower of the World Trade Center. I could almost see the imprint left by the plane, a jagged, gaping black hole belching smoke.

My husband was to have been there.

At the time, of course, he was not my husband. At the time, I did not even know that he existed. I was still married to my first husband, he to his first wife.

Ten years ago, surrounded by colleagues and students, I watched the catastrophe unfold in real-time; someone had set up a television in the student lounge at the Oberlin Conservatory of Music, where I worked. I had no idea that less than 50 miles from where I stood, a man sat with his own colleagues, watching the same images, shaking his head in wonderment that he was alive.

These are the jolts of time and circumstance that leave me speechless, in awe of the powerful forces that alter our lives.

John has spent the majority of his career in commercial insurance, specifically, environmental insurance. From 1994 through 1998, he worked in the Cleveland office of AIG. It was while John was with AIG that he became friends with a New York-based AIG colleague, Jeffrey Gardner. John left AIG to become vice-president and managing director of Seneca Environmental Management, a division of Seneca Specialty Insurance Company. Jeffrey ultimately left AIG to join Marsh McLennan as an environmental insurance broker. At the time of the attacks on 9/11, Marsh McLennan had offices on eight floors of the North Tower of the World Trade Center.

Because John’s responsibilities at Seneca involved all aspects of national marketing and underwriting, he traveled frequently for work, often to meet with his clients—insurance brokers in cities all across the country. Jeffrey was now a client. At 8:30 on the morning of Tuesday, September 11, 2001, John had a meeting scheduled with Jeffrey in his office at the WTC.

Less than one week before their meeting, John telephoned Jeffrey to postpone. “I looked at my calendar and realized that we would both be at the same conference at San Antonio in a few weeks’ time, so I called Jeffrey and suggested that we put off our meeting until then. It is so vivid—I remember standing next to my desk and looking out the window on a clear Friday afternoon, with my phone in my hand as we spoke for the last time.”

At 8:46 a.m. on Tuesday, September 11, 2001, 16 minutes after the originally scheduled time of John’s meeting with Jeffrey Gardner, American Airlines Flight 11 crashed into the north side of the North Tower, between the 94th and 98th floors.

Jeffrey’s office at Marsh McLennan, where he was to have met with John, was on the 98th floor.

John watched the horror unfold from the safety of a third-floor office in Middleburg Heights, Ohio, with his colleagues. Here is his account:

I didn’t make the connection at first—that I would have been staring at the nose of the aircraft as it split the building. All I could think of was the terror coursing through the veins of everyone in the building. I knew quite a few people in there and my brother, Brian, lived just across the river, in Brooklyn. I heard about it on the car radio on my way to work; I lived just a few miles from the office, so I turned around to get a small TV from the house so those of us in the office could follow what was happening. I returned with the TV and had plugged it in just after the second plane struck the South Tower.

All seven of us were in the office, riveted to the TV. I turned to see one of my assistants, Elaine, staring at me. Her face was ashen. She whispered, “You were supposed to be there.” Then, after a measured pause, she repeated the same words in a slightly more audible voice. It was then that I felt my stomach drive itself into my throat. All of a sudden I could almost feel a part of myself in the office and a part of myself standing hopelessly somewhere among the mass hysteria that was unfolding.

Just as I was coming to grips with the fact that I was safe, the first tower collapsed. My own words came slowly this time: “I was supposed to be there. I was supposed to be there.” I could not take my eyes off what I was witnessing, knowing that my fate had placed me safely in a third-floor office in Northeast Ohio instead of in the unspeakable crosshairs of history. I would be able to come home and hug my sons, and they would still have a dad.

Despite our inability to connect with home office for days, we eventually learned that all of our company people were accounted for. But had I not made that fateful call to change my plans for that day, there would have been one less name on the company roster.

The two beautiful waterfalls designed by Michael Arad and Peter Walker that now soothe the scorched footprints of the Twin Towers at the Memorial site have a most philosophical name: “Reflecting Absence.” John and I plan to pay our respects, to look at the names etched in bronze on the memorial’s perimeters. We will pause when we get to Jeffrey Gardner’s. We will say a prayer for him and for his family. And we will reflect upon John’s absence from the World Trade Center on that fateful day.